


#SolavellanHellArtChallenge2020 - Pride

by fenkyuubi



Series: #SolavellanHellArtChallenge2020 [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crestwood (Dragon Age), Demons, F/M, Solas Fluff Friday, Spirits, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23980621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenkyuubi/pseuds/fenkyuubi
Summary: #SolavellanHellArtChallenge2020 - PrideI like to think Solas was a spirit once - but that was long ago and his friends have forgotten.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Lavellan & Solas
Series: #SolavellanHellArtChallenge2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729195
Kudos: 10





	#SolavellanHellArtChallenge2020 - Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Joining in with my tardy submission for the #SolavellanHellArtChallenge2020! Really happy (and nervous) to be sharing my work with the very talented Solavellan writers out there.
> 
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry

“ _He_ is late.” The spirit’s lilt frizzles like a newly lit fuse. It sighs and the crackle of static hums in its throat. 

Its companion is thin, veiled, and indistinct; white in corners, translucent in others. It cowers at the weight and shape of Command’s words, which are sharp and short and angry. 

“Command is always in such a hurry.” Compassion’s voice is the soft breeze in late Autumn—crisp and frail like yellow leaves in fall.

“Compassion is too quick to forgive.”

“Where is Love?” Justice asks. It searches the shadows in the smog with sightless eyes. 

“Are you Justice or Forgetfulness? Command sneers. “Love forgot its nature, as it is wont to do. Love is now Envy.”

Justice nods and floats to the edge of the clearing. Bits of fallen rock and debris scud across a jade sky.

Justice's melancholy is palpable, and something Compassion must endure. The sensation roosts in the spirit's chest with thorny fingers it cannot shake off. As always, Compassion feels too much and says too little.

“First Wisdom, now Love,” Justice adds meaningfully. Its words break against the Veil with a hiss, like the rolling waves of the North Sea against stony shores. Its tone surges with confidence and purpose.  
  
“We lost Wisdom before,” Command reminds him, arms folded over an amorphous chest. “Before the sky fell and he became whole. Wisdom became Pride. Pride became real.”  
  
“Not our Wisdom—our Wisdom was perverted.” Compassion steels its voice with frail conviction. “They bound it, hurt it, molded it. They made it something else. Mages want protection but invite danger—they learn this and forget, over and over. Wisdom never wanted to become Pride.”  
  
“Pride?” Justice interjects, and is suddenly very still. After a moment, it gestures towards the gloom. The others follow. 

The sea of mist swirls, shifts, and parts. It tries desperately to envelop the shape, but fails. It wisps around a tall, angular figure, and sneaks a glance beneath the cowl that covers its face. The Fade trembles with excitement, imbued with nervous energy that undulates and throbs like the heart of a young lover. 

Solas draws back the hood and grins. 

Command bristles. Its static fills the air. “You’re late.”

The elf brings his fingers to his forehead and bows. “Ir abelas.”

Though he is smiling, Compassion tastes his fear and confusion. It whimpers and folds inside itself to keep out the pain. “Your sadness cuts, Lethallin. Are you Pride, or Despair?”  
  
“I am Solas,” he says, his lips upending into a frown. “I am simply me.”  
  
Command glides towards him and sniffs the faded robes that hang over his shoulders. “You _were_ Pride, like you were Wisdom. Now you are _less_.”

“He is more,” Compassion challenges. Its chalky aura flares like a lit match. “He is Wisdom, Pride, and Despair—He is Love and Desire, too. He is whole and incomplete in ways we should not be.” The spirit finds his hurt—it’s everywhere. It dusts his arms like dry skin; sits like an iron ball in his belly. It’s in his hair and eyes, and weighs down his heels when he walks. There is too much to mend, Compassion thinks, but still tries to make it better. 

Beneath their feet, a dark lake grows and expands. It hangs like oil around the hem of Solas’ ankles and presses the fabric against his leg. Shadowed, hazy statues of Ghilan'nain manifest out of nothingness; their limestone antlers curling into an inky sky. The echoes of the Fade ebb into an eerie calm.  
  
Solas glances down at Compassion, his eyes enlivened with tears. 

Compassion feels his pain contract, then lessen. “Pride should never be sad,” he says, and touches Solas with hands that do not feel. 


End file.
